


No Light, No Light

by johnwatso



Series: Ceremonials [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, They're getting there, set after s3, tarmac scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2518100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His bed was full of Mary, but the space next to him felt empty."<br/>After the tarmac scene, Sherlock and John eventually find their way to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

> You are the hole in my head  
> You are the space in my bed  
> You are the silence in between  
> What I thought and what I said
> 
> You are the night time fear  
> You are the morning when it's clear  
> When it's over you're the start  
> You're my head, you're my heart
> 
> No light, no light in your bright blue eyes
> 
> Florence + the Machine, ["No Light, No Light"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dUqnaJN5x-A)

“Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?”

Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows and allowed for it. Sherlock had already bid farewell to Mary, making her promise to keep John in trouble.

Once they were alone, John nodded at Sherlock, feeling like his whole world was coming to an end on the inside, but putting on a brave front. He was a solider, he would have you know.

“So here we are,” he began and Sherlock made a joke about baby names.

John couldn’t think of anything to say, even though a million things were on the tip of his tongue. A million thoughts, like, _I love you_ , and, _please don’t leave me again_ , and, _I would give anything to have you come back to me again, another miracle_. But those were the things he couldn’t say, the holes in his life that he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge, especially not now that Mary was pregnant. He had never especially wanted a child, but he couldn’t shirk his responsibility, not like his own father had done.

Still, even though Mary slept beside him every single night, it wasn’t her that he dreamed of. It was always Sherlock, whispering that the game was on, smiling with his eyes after a brilliant solution to a brilliant mystery, yelling, “take my hand!” while the police chased them and they were handcuffed together, even “goodbye John” from the rooftop of Bart’s. His bed was full of Mary, but the space next to him felt empty.

Sherlock told him of Mycroft’s estimation - six months and then _who knows what_ \- and his blood-curdling fears were confirmed. John knew, without a doubt, that Sherlock wasn’t coming back to him. Not this time. You can only be afforded so many opportunities in your miserable life, and he had run out of second chances. Opportunities to live a full life, opportunities to say the things you never had a chance to, opportunities to make the infuriating, brilliant, mad genius in front of you belong to you. And now time had run out. Sherlock would never know how John felt and John would never know, finally know for sure, whether the feelings were reciprocated in any way. But then -

“John, there’s something I should say; I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now…”

And John’s heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him, a heady mixture of relief and dread washing over him - relief that it was real, dread that it could never become anything more - only to be followed by a joke. John laughed, the tension draining out of him, but as soon as he looked back into Sherlock’s face, the silence between what he was thinking and what he had actually spoken aloud was written along his inconsolable eyes, his twitchy mouth. He knew it. Sherlock knew it. Nothing needed to actually be spoken aloud in order for it to be real; he realised that now.

John felt his chest compress as he shook Sherlock’s hand. Shook his hand like they were acquaintances or business partners, when both of them knew that they were so much more than that. So much more than even best friends had any right to be.

And then John had held onto Mary’s hand as Sherlock’s plane took off, just as he did when Sherlock was gone. He was lucky to have Mary. Despite everything they had been through, he loved her. Not like he loved Sherlock, obviously, but nobody could really come close, as all his former girlfriends had pointed out so rightly. He had denied all of it then - of course he had - but after Irene and Baskerville and the fall, John was done denying it. He didn’t speak it aloud, but he confirmed it - at least to himself.

Mary had given him a chance at life. She had given him a chance to go on living even when he thought he didn’t have it in him, because the only person who was ever able to inspire in him the will to live since Afghanistan was in the ground (supposedly).

John wished it was yet another magic trick, that Sherlock was doing this to get him to forgive him or to leave Mary and solve crimes with him. He would be furious, but he would forget it in a heartbeat if it meant that he could have Sherlock back. He knew a life without Sherlock, one without light, and he would give anything to make him stay.

Suddenly, everything was blurring together as John was watching Moriarty on a screen and he barely heard Mary’s anxious, “But he’s dead. I mean, you told me he was dead.”

Sherlock’s plane was turning back and landing on the very same tarmac where he had just said goodbye to him. It was too much. He felt as though his heart was restarting, like Sherlock’s had done on that operating table after Mary shot him. 

Once the plane landed, John had offered his help on the case, but Mycroft had only clipped out that they’d be in touch and had sent him and Mary on their way. A full day later, when John still hadn’t heard from either of them, he decided to text Sherlock while he had his lunch. He didn’t need things to become the way they were after the wedding, when Sherlock had left early and they hadn’t spoken for a month. He would never know if the drugs were just for the Magnussen case or if he could have prevented it had he not been so stubbornly waiting for Sherlock to text him first, but he’d never find out.

_Any updates?_

The reply was almost instantaneous.

_Not yet. SH_

_Let me know?_

_Will do. SH_

John frowned at his screen.

_Anything I can do? Is he really back?_

Sherlock didn’t reply for a couple of minutes, leaving John to fiddle with his food while he waited.

_It’s complicated. SH_

John felt a familiar irritation at being left behind, left out, just _left_ by Sherlock.

_This concerns me too, yeah? Need to know if we’re safe._

_Don’t worry, John. You and your family are safe. SH_

At that, John’s heart sank. _You and your family_. Even though he was married with a child on the way, John never imagined that Sherlock would refer to them in the second-person, assuming that he wasn’t one of his family.

_You’re my family, too._

Sherlock never replied. John tried to finish the rest of his lunch and carried on his day, fiddling on his blog and trying to pay attention to Mary’s concerned questions about Sherlock.

That night, John barely slept, but when he did, all he could see was Sherlock’s body on the pavement in front of Bart’s, his face covered in blood, no pulse in his wrist. That period of his life was over, but he could somehow still feel the complete loss of joy that proceeded Sherlock’s fake suicide. A small part of him always held out hope that he would come back, but he logically knew that it was the denial portion of his grieving process that he was experiencing. Some mornings, he would still wake up with a sunken heart, taking a few moments to process the fact that his light had returned, that he didn’t need to grieve anymore, that Sherlock was back home.

———

A week passed before John decided to check in on Sherlock in person. He was barely responding to any of John’s texts, and when he did, his responses were short and uninformative. After everything they had been through, John couldn’t just stay at home and wait for a one-worded reply that may or may not come.

He opened 221B with his key and walked up the steps, expecting Sherlock to be pacing a hole in the floor, excitable and drunk on Moriarty’s latest game. John knew that Sherlock hated for things to be dull, and he reckoned that this was about as exciting as it could get. 

Surprisingly, however, John found the sitting room empty, not even a sheet of paper pinned to the wall, let alone the usual mess of evidence and scraps of notes that amassed when there was a big case on. The kitchen was also empty.

“Sherlock?” John called out. He was about to leave when he heard a faint tinkering coming from the bathroom. He knocked twice on the door before calling out Sherlock’s name again. When no reply came, John began to grow suspicious. He hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with an intruder, but he wasn’t afraid to face one. He opened the door, slowly at first, and then all the way, and what he saw made his blood pressure spike and then drop, his face go cold and his hands and feet tingle. Sherlock was on the floor, next to the bath, looking completely dazed and vacant. John had never seen him like this, but he knew what it was, even before he saw the needle on the floor. He went into doctor mode immediately, kneeling beside Sherlock, checking his vitals. 

“Sherlock. Are you okay?” John asked him, cradling his head in his hands. His tiny pupils and slackened pulse were worrying. 

 “I’m fine, John,” he replied, barely looking at him, “just sleepy, that’s all.” 

John was glad he could focus enough to speak to him.

“I’m taking you to the A&E. Right now,” John said, lifting Sherlock up from beneath his armpits.

“John, John, John. I’m hardly a novice at this. I’d never take too much. I’m a chemist, remember,” Sherlock scoffed, ever-pragmatic.

John sighed and shook his head. He decided it best to take him to bed and let him sleep it off. With Sherlock’s help, they managed to get him into his sheets, still clothed in his pyjamas and tan dressing gown. Once he was in the bed, Sherlock curled onto his side, his expression empty. John went to fetch him a glass of water, which he left next to the bed and sat down next to him.

He had never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable before. He was furious at him for doing this, but he felt sick with guilt at the thought that he may have prevented this from happening had he come sooner, had he been more present after the wedding, had he never married Mary in the first place. Sherlock reached for his hand and clasped it in his own without looking into John’s eyes.

For the first time, John really saw: Sherlock _needed_ him. John patted him on the hand twice and let go. He texted Mary that he wouldn’t be home until later and never waited for the reply before turning his phone off.

Without even a second thought, John took his jeans off and climbed into the bed with Sherlock. He lay on his back while Sherlock dozed on and off, his back to him. John stared up at the ceiling for ages, thinking about Mary. He was in love with her, once. It wasn’t her fault that she could never compare to the man he lay next to. She was a more than adequate partner when Sherlock was dead, and even after, when he came back, John thought that he could have them both in his life, the perfect setup in its own way. He knew he could never have Sherlock fully - he was married to his work. He wasn’t like that. He didn’t feel things that way... John didn’t think. When John saw the bottle of Clair De La Lune on the side table and knew that it was Mary who had shot Sherlock, everything changed. It wasn’t that his feelings did a 180; they just surfaced more readily. Losing Sherlock does that to someone. Ever since then, he hadn’t trusted Mary, even though he had tried. Every time she received a text or went out, he wondered where to. They had barely had a proper conversation since then, let alone been intimate. John still cared about her, in his own way, but, upon realising that she wasn’t who he thought she was, he almost felt a form of relief - the charade didn’t have to go on; he didn’t need to pretend to love her unequivocally anymore. He sensed that she understood this, too, and that a part of her was just as hesitant to give fully of herself again. She had been distant lately, especially since Sherlock’s plane had turned around. It was almost as though she knew that the unspoken words between him and John on the tarmac were louder than any of the ones they dared to say.

It was around 11 o’clock when Sherlock woke up fully and turned over, still in the fetal position. He looked up at John sheepishly, knowing the wrath that his using could incur in his friend. 

John didn’t even look at Sherlock when he spoke. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re sorry, and you should be. And we’ll get to that later. But are you okay?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Right. I’m furious, but we can discuss this tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

John started climbing out of the bed, but was stilled by Sherlock’s grip on his wrist, light but unmistakable.

“Stay?” he asked, barely audible.

John sniffed in through his nose, out through his mouth and thought about it. Sherlock had never asked him for this before, had never really admitted to needing him. He didn’t have it in him to deny him this. Who knows how many people before John had rejected him. He had a feeling the list was on par with all the people who had labelled him a freak.

Sighing, John settled back on the bed, still on his back. Sherlock tentatively shifted closer, so that his knees and arms were a breath away from John. 

“Sleep, Sherlock,” John said, and ran his fingers through his friend’s hair, a gesture he had been tempted to engage in many times before, but had never been appropriate.

Sherlock shifted his head into John’s hand, wordlessly encouraging him. They fell asleep that way, John’s hand on Sherlock’s head.

———

When John woke up just a couple of hours later, it was still dark, and Sherlock’s head had migrated to his chest. John’s arm was over Sherlock’s shoulders and the omnipresent emptiness beside him was filled.

———

Once the morning light came through Sherlock’s open curtains, John took a little while to open his eyes, reminding himself that he wasn’t at home, in bed with Mary. He looked to his side and Sherlock wasn’t there. Remembering Sherlock’s indulgences from the previous night, John jumped out of bed to look for him. He found him sitting at the kitchen table, his hands in front of him, deep in thought. His eyes briefly flickered up when John entered.

Before John could even open his mouth to speak - “I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said softly.

“Sherlock. Why. _What_ the _bloody hell_ were you thinking, hmm?”

“I wasn’t… I didn’t intend - “

“Oh, of course. You didn’t _intend_ anything. Do you have any idea that your actions actually affect other people? No, no, you don’t. Clearly, you don’t.” By now, John was furious, his left hand clenching and unclenching.

“John. I -" 

“No, Sherlock. You don’t get to defend yourself. Not again. Are you going to tell me this is for a case? Hmm? I told you before, if you were anywhere near this stuff, you could have called.”

Sherlock, still looking down, didn’t respond.

“When you were using for the Magnussen case; was that even a legitimate excuse? Don’t answer that. How long has this been going on, Sherlock? The truth. For once.”

“I don’t know. I… Maybe since… I don’t know.”

“Sherlock…” John’s voice had taken on a dangerous tone, the implied warning clear in just one word.

Sherlock huffed out a breath through his mouth, steeling himself. “Since before I accepted the Magnussen case. I forget.”

That shut John up for a while. He sat down before his leg went weak on him, across from Sherlock.

“Will you stop? Will you stop if I stay here for a while?”

At that, Sherlock’s eyes shot up to John’s, his brow furrowed.

“I don’t require your pity, John. I’m quite capable of looking after myself. As you may or may not have noticed, I carried out much of my adult life living alone before I met you, and I can do so again.”

Ignoring his biting rejections, John reached for Sherlock’s clasped hands, taking one of them gently into his own.

“I know you can look after yourself. I know,” John said patiently while he rubbed his thumb over the tops of Sherlock’s knuckles.

“And furthermore, what would your _wife_ think about you moving back here to look after a junkie? I’m sure she’ll think it’s a splendid idea. ‘Oh, sorry I can’t look after you while you’re pregnant, dear, I’m too busy making sure my deadbeat friend doesn’t start using again. Have a lovely time while I’m gone’? Is that what you’ve told her?”

“I haven’t told her anything yet, Sherlock. I’m discussing this with you. I’ll call her and tell her. I even have spare clothing here. I know you don’t fancy the idea of being watched, but this isn’t about that. I need to be here. With you.”

The _for now_ John omitted made his chest feel tight, but he soldiered on. “And, if you’ll have me here, I think it may also be good for you. Have some support while you, er… recover, yeah?”

Sherlock looked at him questionably for a few moments, before, “Fine. Whatever you think is best,”  and his face returned to his mask of casual indifference.

“Great. Cuppa?” John asked, and he got to his feet and stretched.

Sherlock didn’t need to answer for John to pull down two cups and start making the coffee - Sherlock was already in his mind palace, lost to the outside world.

John took the opportunity to turn on his phone and call Mary from the sitting room. He was surprised that she hadn’t texted him during the night. He felt bad for not letting her know where he was, but he reasoned that she would assume he fell asleep anyway.

She picked up on the third ring, “Hello John,” she answered, her tone friendly.

“Hi. Um, sorry for not calling last night. I fell asleep.”

“Hm? Oh, it’s fine. What’s he got himself into this time, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is he working on the Moriarty thing?”

“Erm, sort of. Listen, Mary, I think I’m going to need to stay here for a few days. I can’t really go into it much right now, but Sherlock is. Well. He’s sort of ill.”

“Fine,” Mary responded, a little short, “When will you be back home?”

Home. Funny word, that.

“I just need to be here for a couple of days. I’ll check in, yeah?”

“Alright. See you,” Mary responded and hung up.

John noticed Sherlock lurking in the doorway.

“Just letting Mary know I won’t be home,” John said, putting his phone away.

Sherlock crossed the room to sit in his chair, across from John. He steepled his fingers carefully and pulled his mouth into a thin line.

“John. There’s something you should know.”

When John responded by simply waiting, Sherlock continued.

“There is no Moriarty.”

“What? What do you mean? Was it someone from his network who organised that broadcast of him? What do they want, then?”

“No, John. You misunderstand. Moriarty is dead. I took out most of his network while I was… away.”

“So then…?” John was confused, but he was used to being a step behind Sherlock by now.

“Mycroft.”

“Sorry, what?”

“He estimated that I wouldn’t return from exile, so he thought up a way to ensure that I was needed here. If I was too valuable to lose, they could view me as an asset, and forget the little shooting Magnussen incident.”

John stared at Sherlock, incredulous.

“I - I was going to tell you, John, it just. There never seemed to be a correct time, and it wasn’t something I wanted to risk sending in a text. I mean - ”

John shocked Sherlock by cutting him off, howling with laughter.

“You bloody madman. You bastard. I’m so relieved. I’m so relieved that he won’t get a chance to take you away again. You absolute idiot. You don’t have to leave. Tell Mycroft he was right - he is the brighter of the two of you. Shit. I thought I had lost you again. I thought it was goodbye. On the tarmac. I was saying goodbye.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock responded, more to his lap than to John.

“You idiot,” John muttered, giggling.

“I know,” Sherlock responded, and they lapsed into a quiet companionship until Sherlock said a while later, “I hope this means you’re not angry anymore.”

John renewed his chuckles, “I’m still livid with you, prat. We can discuss how furious I am over lunch. Chinese?”

“Mmm. Indian,” Sherlock responded, mask of indifference back on.

———

Later that afternoon, Sherlock and John were both in the sitting room, reading in comfortable silence, the kind of silence achieved when you’re with someone you can be yourself around, no need to fill in the gaps, when Mycroft waltzed in, umbrella in hand, as always.

“What?” Sherlock said, not even glancing up from his book.

“Good afternoon, John. Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted them, ignoring Sherlock’s impertinence.

“Mycroft,” John acknowledged, “Tea?”

“I’m fine. Actually, John, I was wondering if I could have a word with my brother. In private.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to assess Mycroft, his gaze steely and curious.

John nodded and gestured to his now-unoccupied chair for Mycroft to sit.

“I’ll pop around to the shops for some milk. Need anything?” John addressed Sherlock.

“Fine. Don’t have any rows with any machines while you’re there,” Sherlock said, almost deadpan, save for the slight quirk of his mouth.

 John smiled to himself at the long-forgotten memory, shrugged on his coat and left.

On the way to Tesco, John stopped to send a quick text to Mary:

_How’s the baby?_

She responded just a few moments later:

_All good. xxx_

Relieved that her response didn’t seem terse, John put his phone away and continued.

———

When John walked through the door of 221B with the shopping, Mycroft had already left. Sherlock glanced up at him from his chair, apprehensive. John put the groceries away, aware of Sherlock’s eyes on his back the entire time, then went to sit opposite him, in his chair.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Hmm?”

“Sherlock. What’s going on? Is this to do with the fake Moriarty broadcast? Oh, God, are they sending you off again? Can Mycroft -“

“No, John, it’s nothing like that. It’s…”

At the look on Sherlock’s face, John knew already.

“Mary,” John whispered, shaking his head.

Sherlock nodded. “Mycroft thinks… She may be better acquainted with Moriarty than we were otherwise led to believe.”

“Shit.”

“Apparently, ever since the broadcast, she has been trying to track him down, surveilling people we believe to be former members of the network. It seems… It seems that Mary worked as a sniper for Moriarty for a number of years.”

“That’s why she didn’t come to you, when Magnussen was blackmailing her,” John was placid on the outside, but his insides were broiling, revolting against him. He could feel his left hand beginning to shake.

“Presumably,” Sherlock pursed his lips, looked up at John, studying him carefully. “There’s more. John, I don’t know if I should tell you this. I’d not have said anything if I thought it could be avoided, but…”

“Tell me. Just get it over with.”

“Mycroft’s people have uncovered the reason Mary started working at the same clinic as you.”

“Oh.” John understood perfectly well. It made absolute sense. Happiness didn’t just come to people like John Watson. Mary wasn’t just working for Moriarty, she was spying on John for him. He stood up, his hand visibly shaking by now, and walked over to the fireplace, his back to Sherlock.

“And… The baby, John. Mycroft believes Mary led you to believe that she was pregnant in order to ensure that you stayed with her. He thinks… He thinks she was worried that you’d leave her and it was… her insurance, in a way,” Sherlock sounded as pained as John felt while he delivered the final blow.

“Is that it?” he asked Sherlock, adopting his army stance, ready to hear more if he needed to.

“That’s it, John,” Sherlock said softly.

“Right. Right. My wife really is a psychopath. That’s just bloody great!” John screamed, emphasising the last word by slamming his hand against the mirror.

The glass shattered onto the mantelpiece, but John felt too numb to notice. His entire body was shaking by now.

“John!” Sherlock was at his side in an instant, “You’re bleeding!”

“Just. Stay away from me. Please. I - I can’t,” John barely managed to croak out.

“John…”

“No. No! I’ve had quite my fill of psychopaths for the time being, thank you very much!” And with that, John took off up the stairs to his old bedroom.

Unfortunately, he didn’t escape before he saw the look of pure hurt on Sherlock’s face. He hadn’t meant to cause him pain. It was just all too much to take in at once, and he felt ashamed by his temper. He took three deep breaths, still shaking, and examined his hand. It appeared to be bleeding quite badly, but it didn’t look like he’d need stitches. Still, he needed to clean it up.

John quietly, grudgingly opened his bedroom door and made his way to the bathroom. Sherlock wasn’t in the sitting room, and the door to his bedroom was open and revealed that he wasn’t there either. John felt a stab of guilt at the fact that Sherlock felt he needed to leave, but he could think about that after.

He cleaned his wounds carefully, taking out any small shards of glass. Once he was done, he went into the kitchen, poured himself a double of whiskey and downed it. He poured another and sipped that one while he pulled out his phone to text Sherlock.

_Where are you?_

When Sherlock hadn’t replied fifteen minutes later, John began to grow worried. He noticed that the glass by the fireplace had been cleaned up.

_Please come back or at least text._

The reply came in a few minutes later.

_At Bart’s. Busy. SH_

_Please come home._

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he was back within half an hour. He stilled at the entrance to the sitting room, contemplating something. When John opened his mouth to speak, he turned around and stomped off to his room, his usual dramatic fare well in attendance. John sighed in resignation and carried on drinking.

When he eventually stumbled into bed, John felt strangely at peace. Somewhere within, he was furious with Mary, with his life, but after everything he had been through, he was numb. It was as though things didn’t have the ability to rile him up anymore. Call it maturation, call it emotional exhaustion - it all had the same effect. He thought about the shocked, dejected way that Sherlock looked at him before he ran up to his room. It wasn’t right to make Sherlock the target of his pain and rage, but the saying “don’t shoot the messenger” had to have come about for a reason, right? A huge part of John actually felt a huge surge of relief at Mary’s deception about her pregnancy, and that worried him. Is this what his life had come to? Being relieved that your wife is a liar, because it means you’re off the hook? It almost felt like he was free of her now. The show could really end. Curtain closed. Thank you for coming.

It hurt, sure, that he was basically just a mark to Mary, but he had seen the love in her eyes, had known that it wasn’t all a game. He knew that their marriage vows weren’t just for show. Her actions may have been deplorable, but her intentions weren’t. John was beginning to understand that not everybody functioned on the same level. All the evidence he needed was right in 221B. Sherlock was not like other people, didn’t express himself the same way. John could admit now that he also wasn’t like most other people, even though he spent his life hiding the fact. John enjoyed danger. It was like a drug. It was what drew him to Sherlock in the first place. It wasn’t why he stayed, but it was certainly the catalyst. 

John wasn’t sure what his next move would be, but he knew that he was done with Mary and her cons. He didn’t even really have it in him to resent her _that_ much, thanks to the fact that he could now have what he wanted, which was to move back home, to Baker street. To Sherlock.

———

When John woke up early the next morning, Sherlock was still in his room. He made two cups of tea and went to knock on Sherlock’s bedroom door. When he didn’t respond, John opened the door, not in the mood for the silent treatment. Sherlock was lying on his bed, curled up on his side. John set his cup of tea on his bedside table and sat down next to him on the bed. He couldn’t resist running his fingers through his friend’s hair. Sherlock groaned a bit and opened his eyes, looking confused and yet vulnerable at once - no time to feign indifference that early in the morning, then.

“Morning,” John said, smiling down at him with his eyes.

“Yes. Morning,” Sherlock replied, his mouth puckering into his typical ‘I’m having a sulk’ expression.

John ruffled his hair once more and sipped on his tea. “I can’t go home tomorrow and face Mary. Obviously. When are we doing something about her?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet John’s. “ _Doing something_?”

“Yes, well, believe it or not, I can’t pretend to love a liar until the end of our days,” John responded, more than a little irritated that Sherlock didn’t understand the emotional brevity of the situation.

Sherlock stared at John for a good few minutes, his gaze no doubt analysing and gathering information.

“I’ll speak to Mycroft today. See what our next move is. For now, just text her not to expect you.”

“Great. Breakfast?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, sulk-face returning.

“Come on. You can’t be mad at me forever. Surely even you can understand why I may have been more than a little bit upset with the revelations about my deceitful wife.”

“Oh yes, John, _even I_ might understand something about that. Even psychopaths can observe normal behaviour and make deductions. I’m not that much of a _machine_.” Sherlock spat out and, although his expression said angry, John knew him well enough by now to read it as hurt. It was the same expression he wore whenever someone called him a freak, or when his brilliant deductions were being doubted. John was more than aware of why Sherlock might have been upset this time. The throwback to the insult he hurled at him before he jumped off Bart’s rooftop hit John right in the middle of his chest. How long had Sherlock been holding on to that one?

“Sherlock. I’m. I’m really sorry for what I said. Last night. You know I don’t really think those things. You know that, don’t you? It’s just. It’s a lot, Sherlock. It’s a lot for someone like me to deal with.”

“Someone like you?” Sherlock raised his eyebrow and scoffed. “You mean someone who isn’t a psychopath?”

John sighed. “Someone who isn’t a brilliant genius. Someone who needs time to process things. Someone who is a bit of an idiot.”

“On that point, I’ll have to agree…”

“Sherlock.” John laid the tips of his fingers over his friend’s.

Sherlock looked up at John once again. It was a wonder that, for someone with such shining brilliance and outward confidence, he could sometimes seem so small. So vulnerable.

“Fine. It’s all fine, John,” he mumbled, taking his hand out from under John’s to reach for his tea.

They drank in an affable quiet for a while.

———

Sherlock spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon on the couch, looking as though he was trying to make his body as small as possible. In the late afternoon, John decided to take his book and sit next to him.

“Move up,” John said and he touched Sherlock’s ankle to get his attention. At this, Sherlock flinched slightly. It was then that John really looked at him. He looked miserable, worse than when he was bored after too much time without cases. He also had a slight sheen of perspiration on his face, which didn’t match the weather or Sherlock’s usual cool (literally and figuratively) demeanour.

“Are you okay?” John asked, his hand immediately going to rest on Sherlock’s brow, which felt warm, but not too worryingly hot.

“Mmm,” was all he got in response.

John knew that withdrawal symptoms, which usually peaked a few days after the fact, included aches and sensitivity, not to mention mood changes and clamminess. Although normal, John was surprised that Sherlock should even be experiencing these symptoms. Clearly, he had been bingeing far worse than John initially thought. Again, the guilt rose up to his throat like bile.

“How long have you been experiencing withdrawal symptoms?” John dove right in, to which Sherlock glanced over, looking more and more miserable by the second.

“Hard to say. Barely slept last night. If I could just…”

“No. No. The worst should be over soon. I can prescribe clonidine if -"

“Doesn’t help.”

“Ah. Anything I can get you?”

Sherlock mumbled an “uh-uh” and curled up even tighter.

John put the TV on to distract him and went to make green tea. When he came back to the couch, Sherlock automatically sat up and took the cup, sipping until there was half left. To John’s surprise, he then curled up in the opposite direction, with his head in John’s lap. John smiled to himself, glad to feel needed by someone who claimed to never need anybody - _why would I need you?_ \- even though the circumstances were less than ideal. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair - he would never get enough of doing it - and they watched TV for the remainder of the afternoon.

———

After dinner, Sherlock’s mood was worse still. John tried to distract him with everything he could think of, but he seemed more content to curl up on his chair and brood (John would never cease to be amazed at the fact that a 6-foot grown man could nestle into an armchair). John felt sorry for him, but there was nothing he could actually do. He also didn’t particularly appreciate Sherlock’s snapping at him whenever he tried to suggest activities. Eventually, John decided to read in his own chair and ignore him. The trouble was, it proved to be quite difficult trying to read with someone blatantly staring at you.

“What?” John finally asked, beginning to feel self-conscious under Sherlock’s incessant scrutiny.

“Thinking.”

“Could you maybe think without looking at me?” John muttered.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked. When John stiffened in response, he clarified. “I mean to say, why are you here when I’ve nothing on?”

“Sherlock. I don’t only visit when we have a case. I literally walked in on you during a binge. Do you think I’d leave you alone after that?”

“So it’s because you feel you need to watch me?” Sherlock’s brows crinkled together.

“No. Well, yes. But it’s also because I. Well I care about you,” John almost stumbled over his words. He thought that after his speech on the train, when Sherlock tricked him, and the speech Sherlock gave at his wedding, they would be better at speaking openly about their feelings. No such luck, it seemed.

“Why?”

“Sorry?” It was John’s turn to crinkle his brows.

“Why do you care? Why _should_ you care? _Why_ should _you_ care?” Sherlock emphasised, speaking rapidly, as though in the middle of a deduction. “Yes, I’m your friend. Yes, your wife has recently been exposed as a fraud and a possible psychopath. But, and this is coming from what I have learned from observations, it doesn’t seem like ‘friends’ care quite in the way that you have been doing recently. Now, I’ve obviously never conducted a sample, but I’m quite certain that ‘friends’ don’t hold other ‘friends’ during the night. The amount of physical contact you’ve been doling out is quite disproportionate to that which you’ve ever shown me before. So. John. Again, I ask: why do you care? Do you pity me? Because I know you aren’t the most luminous of people, we’ve established that, but surely you remember that I loathe pity. And I don’t need it.” With that, Sherlock twisted around and faced the back of his chair so John could no longer see his face.

John blinked. He was shocked. Not only at the content of Sherlock’s words, but at the rapid, harsh way in which they were delivered. He didn’t have an answer. Well, not one Sherlock would want to hear, anyway. 

“Why should I pity you? I’m clearly not in a position to go around pitying anyone.”

Sherlock muffled out a noncommittal reply and then kept quiet.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, confused and aggravated. The past three days had been emotionally draining. First, he discovered that Sherlock was actually using again. It always bothered him when Sherlock was self-destructive, but this time, he felt additionally worse, because he thought he could have prevented it if only he never left Baker Street. Then, he found out all about his wife; who she really was and would always be. He had always had suspicions where she was concerned, and more so since Moriarty’s “return”, but he never entertained the idea that she might be somehow connected to the man that plagued his life for years, the same man who took Sherlock away from him.

“Sherlock,” John started, tired of arguing. “Sherlock, look at me please.”

At John’s insistent tone, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a silent gesture for John to continue.

“I don’t pity you. And I _do_ care. God help me, I _do_ care about you. Alright? And if my, eh, affection makes you uncomfortable, I apologise.”

“No. It’s fine. I’m just. I suppose I’m not used to it, that’s all,” Sherlock responded, voice becoming more quiet by the word.

John didn’t know what to say. He always knew that Sherlock wasn’t an affectionate person with a huge history of previous romances, but he never imagined that any form of intimacy might be a welcome change for him. Surely someone, somewhere had loved this man and shown him? With a pang, John remembered Sebastian, Sherlock’s university “friend” from the bank, who grinned while telling John how much everybody hated Sherlock at uni. If he could go back, he would wipe the smile from that idiot’s face. Above all, John wishes he never called Sherlock a “colleague” to that bastard. Looking across at his infuriating, brilliant friend at that moment, John knew that he could never leave him. He didn’t know how he never realised it before, the fact that Sherlock cared about him, too. The fact that he did need him. As more than his blogger. Perhaps even as more than his friend. He wished it was a topic that they could explore further, openly and honestly, but Sherlock had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t _do_ relationships; they were clearly _not_ his area, as he had told John that first night at Angelo’s. At that exact moment, Sherlock looked very similar to the way he did all those months ago, before Mary shot him, when he curled up in the same chair, high. He had told John that his chair was simply in his way then, but now John could finally understand it differently. As much as it hurt John, it probably hurt Sherlock even more - being apart. They needed each other. In whatever capacity; it was all fine. They just needed to be together.

“Bed?” John asked suddenly, feeling inspired by his self-analysis.

“Hmm? Oh. You can go. I’m. Thinking,” Sherlock responded, unfocused.

John nodded and went to shower and change for bed. Then, he climbed into Sherlock’s unmade bed, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. In a matter of minutes, Sherlock entered his room and paused in the doorway, his calculations lighting his face up, eyes zagging around the room. Then, he relaxed into his signature neutral, above-it-all posture and slipped into bed, muttering “Goodnight, John,” before turning the lamp off and curling up on his side.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John responded, finding a comfortable position on his back.

A few minutes passed before Sherlock turned around, tentative. He looked up at John and, slowly, as if awaiting an inevitable rejection, he shuffled closer and closer until his head was on John’s shoulder. John stayed perfectly still, not wanting to discourage him, and, when Sherlock was settled, wrapped his arm around his back, rubbing his palm over his spine in a smooth rhythm. It wasn’t long until they both fell asleep.

———

The next morning, John woke up, expecting Sherlock to be out of bed and busy with some pertinent experiment or other. To his surprise and amusement, Sherlock was still asleep, on his side facing John, his lips slightly parted and his hair even more bed-head than usual. John felt his chest compress with unbidden affection. He reached out and pushed Sherlock’s hair from his forehead, repeating the action a few times before he woke up. His face went from ‘huh’ to ‘hey’ in a matter of seconds.

“Morning,” John beat him to it, turning onto his side to face Sherlock, who only smiled in return. “Feeling any better?”

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock affirmed, bashfully.

“Great. How about you make us some coffee then?” John teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth quirking up, but he got up to do it anyway.

While he was gone, John thought about what he was doing. Was there such a thing as platonic bed sharing? Probably not. Did he care? Probably not. He knew that marrying Mary was a big mistake even before she turned out to be a liar. Hell, he knew it even before he married her. The problem was, John didn’t have the heart or the guts to leave the woman he truly did love in order to follow around someone he perceived didn’t need or want him for the rest of his life. If only he had known… He supposed it wouldn’t really have changed much. John always considered himself to be a man of honour, and he was scared to death of becoming like his father, of abandoning his commitments and loved ones. In retrospect, he knew that it wasn’t fair to Mary in any way, but he really did believe that he could make a loving life with her. Well, before she shot his best friend, that is. That was the worst thing she ever could have done - especially after seeing how Sherlock’s “suicide” affected him so significantly for almost two years. He knew that Mary loved him, too, but perhaps the way she loved was different from the way that he loved.

Sherlock returned with their coffee and, to John’s surprise, climbed back into bed. They drank in silence before John couldn’t help but wonder, now that Sherlock was well again.

“Sherlock. What are we going to do? About Mary?”

“Well. That sort of depends on you,” he responded, putting his coffee down to face John.

“On me? Why on me? Is she a threat or not?” John wasn’t used to being asked to make the decisions where Sherlock was concerned.

“John. I can’t decide what the next step is. I did tell you that whatever happened, I’d be there. I don’t intend on breaking that vow.”

“Sh - Sherlock, you can’t be serious,” John was astonished. How could Sherlock honestly think that he could forgive Mary after everything.

“You did marry her. You _chose_ her.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you. Stop saying that. I married her. I know. But I didn’t know what she was. If I knew what she was…”

“Then what?” Sherlock snapped suddenly, “You wouldn’t have gone through with it? You do love her, John.”

“No. I love the Mary Morstan I knew. Not this other woman. Not someone who worked with Moriarty. For God’s sakes, Sherlock, now I think she meant to kill you that night, in Magnussen’s office. The worst part about all of this is that I feel somewhat… liberated. Now that I know what she is, what she really is, I can leave her.”

“John. Understand this. Mary is a highly skilled, highly trained assassin. She has many years’ experience in becoming good at what she does, and she obviously doesn’t like it when she doesn’t get what she wants. And she wants you. You heard her. She said she would do anything to keep you, John. If you left her… I’m not sure she would allow that to happen.”

“She can just bloody well try and stop me, then,” John replied evenly.

“You do love her. Maybe you’re angry now, but -“

John cut in, “I’m not just angry now. I’m furious. She knew. She fucking _knew_ how difficult it was for me to lose you the first time ‘round. She was the one who picked up the pieces. And then she tried to take you away again? There is no way in hell I’ll let her succeed.” John could feel the rage beginning to surface.

“But it doesn’t have to be that way. You could go home to her. You could try to fix this.”

“Are you absolutely insane? She lied about everything. She lied about her identity. About her past. She even lied about being pregnant. She’s sick, Sherlock. And besides, I _am_ home. I finally am.”

Sherlock seemed surprised. “You’re staying?” he asked, and John couldn’t help but identify the hopeful tone.

“If. If it’s alright.”

“Of course it’s alright, John,” Sherlock feigned nonchalance, hiding his mouth in his mug.

“Good. Fine,” John responded, and they drank their coffee, each deep in thought.

———

Later that day, as they sat down to lunch, Sherlock looked at John thoughtfully. 

Eventually - “You’re sure you want this?” he asked John.

Without having to ask, John knew what he meant. _You’re sure you want to leave Mary? You’re sure you want to possibly face a showdown with her? You’re sure you want to come back to Baker Street? You’re sure you’re choosing this?_

“I’m sure,” John stated simply and Sherlock just nodded once.

———

Mycroft paid them a visit that night to discuss the future and share the information he’d gathered on Mary. After seeing files on her - presumably all that she had on her AGRA flash drive that John presently wished he read instead of throwing away as an idiotic gesture - he had to ask Mycroft. He seized the opportunity while Sherlock made tea.

“Did you know?”

“Did I know what?” Mycroft asked, although John would bet his life that he knew exactly what John meant.

“What she was? Did you know all along?”

“John. Contrary to your frankly romantic imagination, I am not omniscient. I did keep loose tabs on you while Sherlock was away, but your romantic entanglements didn’t seem to be of any interest. Please believe me when I say that, had I know what she was, you would have, too,” Mycroft was surprisingly genuine.

John nodded in thanks, eager to continue their planning. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”

“Quite. You’ve seen the files.”

“I mean. Do you think she will be a threat? To us?” John glanced at Sherlock when he asked, hoping Mycroft would understand the unspoken implication.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, comprehension sinking in. “We can’t predict her next move. However, I don’t doubt that she will let you go without a fight.”

“Well, then, she’ll have one,” John replied, his eyes on Sherlock. Eyes on the prize.

———

That night, there were no pretences or hesitances. They both climbed into Sherlock’s bed and Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder once again, only this time without the expectation of rejection.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John asked, knowing that Sherlock would understand.

“You never asked. You never wanted to know. I came back and you were going to be married,” Sherlock responded.

John sat up, forcing Sherlock up, too, and looked at him. “You left. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to think? You left and you didn’t tell me you’d be back. I thought you were dead and I mourned and a part of me feels as though it’s still mourning. That’s how much I mourned for you. Did you expect me to wait?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped, “I didn’t expect anything. I just thought…”

“What?” John asked, when it became apparent that Sherlock would rather fidget with the duvet than continue his declaration.

“Before I had to leave, you stopped dating. I imagined things would… evolve eventually.”

“But you never said anything. And then you left,” the hurt and anger that John had suppressed when Sherlock came back was threatening to spill over.

“I had to. Staying wasn’t an option. Everything was at stake, Moriarty saw to that. ‘Burn the heart out of you’, remember? How was I to know that… that he saw to that regardless. That whether I left or not, I’d have the heart burned out of me. At least by leaving, I let you be happy. You lived.”

“ _Happy_?” John raised his voice, “I couldn’t have been happy even if I tried. I saw you everywhere for the first few months. I saw your coat Regent’s Park, your hair on the tube, your hands in a restaurant near the Yard. I was haunted by you. It felt as though I’d never get over it. Like I’d never be able to live again.”

“And then you met Mary,” Sherlock mumbled.

“And then I met Mary. Yes. She gave me a chance at being happy. Not in the same way, but it was either that or… I couldn’t go on the way I was, Sherlock. I was broken.”

“I am sorry, John. I knew my death may have an effect on you. I couldn’t have known how much. You also never said. Anything,” Sherlock gestured between the two of them.

“I know. We were idiots. We wasted time and I know that. But if we sit here and think about it and talk about it, we’ll both be mad. I think if we just agree to be more… I don’t know… open with each other in future, we could avoid this sort of thing, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded and pushed his head into John’s shoulder, forcing him to lie down. John chuckled. “Demanding prat,” he responded, running his hand through Sherlock’s hair, “Is this how you’ll be every night?”

Sherlock stiffened, causing John to panic. Why had he said that? Had he misread the situation? He wasn’t even expecting anything from Sherlock beyond bed sharing and Baker Street (which, in a way, meant more than any sexual relationship, anyway), but he hoped he hadn’t made an incorrect assumption.

“Hey,” John said, running his hand over Sherlock’s cheekbone and neck, “too much?”

“No,” Sherlock started, relaxing fractionally, “I just… I didn’t want to presume; to hope…”

John’s heart felt full, as though it may explode. So _this_ was joy. This is what he had been searching for. He gripped Sherlock closer and they fell asleep with their legs tangled and each other’s names on their breath.

———

**Author's Note:**

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